


I'll Do Anything For The Soothing Light

by auroreanrave



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Christmas, Injury Recovery, M/M, Recovery, christmas day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-11 13:32:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8981971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auroreanrave/pseuds/auroreanrave
Summary: Sam wakes up to bright winter sunshine after the end of the world.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just an image that popped into my head when enjoying a slew of winter-themed Christmas movies, and trying to brainstorm an alternative festive fic for my OTP. In the universe of the fic, the War For the Dawn has been waged in the modern world, and while most have survived, there has been some repercussions. Recovery-centred, Christmas-based, wintry fluff, because I'm a sap and love this time of year most of all.
> 
> Title comes from "Snow" by Frida Sundemo (which, incidentally, is a wonderful song to add to any winter playlists).

Sam shuffles his way across the bedroom, eyes squinting at the abrasively bright sunlight, and looks across the acres of pristine, shining snow.

His wounds are aching still. He hasn't been able to leave his room yet, and it wasn't until a couple of days ago that he could shuffle to the en-suite bathroom by himself. He's slept through what he thinks is four days, with breaks in his slumber only for the bathroom and for drinks of ice cold water from a warm. murmuring voice. He's heard murmuring voices and warm weight on his feet amidst the soft sheets, and that's all.

This time around, however, he feels awake. Refreshed, albeit with aches and pains, and plenty of bruises and cuts. He feels stitching across a deep cut across the swell of his stomach as he stands and looks out.

Wherever they are is bitterly cold; snow falls from the skies and adds to the seemingly endless fields outside. Sam thinks of home, for the first time in forever, and hopes his mother and sisters and even his brother are alright.

He remembers flashes of fire and red skies and blue eyes and horror. He doesn't want to remember. He knows he has to.

The door to the room creaks open softly, and Sam turns, surprised and self-conscious in his thin tee shirt and boxer shorts, his turn leaving an echo of pain.

Sansa Stark stands in the doorway, a book tucked underneath her arm and a large goblet of water in the other. She looks tired, with dark circles under her eyes, but she's alive and she's smiling at Sam.

"I'm glad you're awake," she says, placing both glass and book on the bedside table. "Jon's been driving himself mad with worry. No matter what we said."

"Jon?" Sam asks. Then he remembers: the wounds on the battlefield, the screams, Jon grabbing his arm and pulling him, even as Sam collapsed with agony and into blackness. "Is he alright?" He sits on the edge of the bed gently.

"He's fine. A little banged up and a bit miserable since you were sleeping," Sansa says with a wry smile, "but he's alright."

"The others?"

Sansa nods, a little more pensively this time. "After the Night's King fell we lost some good men. We buried them a few days ago."

"Where are we?"

"Winterfell," Sansa says, sitting beside Sam on the side of the bed. Her hair is swept up into a fishtail braid that curves around her neck to rest on her shoulder. "It's the safest place for now."

"For now?"

"Killing them - the Others - it triggered some kind of minor... I suppose, ecological event is the best word," Sansa says. "It should return to normal within the next few weeks, but it means that there's snow. A lot of snow."

"I'd guessed," Sam says, looking pointedly to the windows.

"We're about to have lunch," Sansa says gently. "If you want to come and eat something? We've been giving you some broth and soup, but nothing substantial."

Sam nods. "I'll be along in a bit. I need to change."

"Alright," Sansa says. She leans in and kisses Sam on his cheek, leaving a cloud of rose perfume, before she heads out of the room.

Sam takes a sip of the glass of water she's left and rises, his head clearing a little for the first time in days. He opens a bureau and finds some clothes in his size - long-sleeved tee shirts and shorts and socks. It's cosily warm in his room, so he ventures into a pair of shorts and a tee shirt.

When he steps outside, the rest of the house feels just as warm, despite its size. Jon had told him about Winterfell a few times, when they curled up in their tent, warm and sweet together, and Sam hadn't quite believed the size. He'll have to venture outside at some point and see it for himself.

He follows the sounds of talking and music, padding down carpeted stairs, to find the large, open-plan lounge, dining room, and kitchen, filled with the same bright winter sunlight. There are about twenty or thirty of them altogether, helping with the preparation of food and chatting. It looks strangely, wonderfully domestic. There's even a Christmas tree, sparse and plastic, but glowing with brightly coloured baubles, in the living room, next to where Arya is changing the music channels on the TV with Gendry and Bran.

Grenn and Pyp finish laying cutlery down at the huge slab of oak that serves as a dining table and spot Sam. They chorus his name and envelop him in rough hugs as tight as a vice and warm as embers. Sam hugs them back, overwhelmed.

"Sam," he hears a voice croak, and he peels himsefl away from Grenn's grip to see Jon. Jon, wearing his favourite Grateful Dead t shirt and jeans, his hair a dark and tangled mess, his eyes dark and circled with worry.

"Hi," Sam says, aiming for light, just as Jon pushes past Grenn and Pyp and catches Sam in an embrace. Sam rubs his hand along Jon's back when Jon sniffles a little and clings to him. Jon Snow, mighty warrior and defender of mankind, reduced to an emotional wreck at the sight of Sam. Sam thinks the world has a wonderful sense of irony.

"I'm alright," Sam says, placatingly. "See? I'm all good."

"I know," Jon says, stepping away a couple of inches, his hands on Sam's shoulders. Sam is consciously aware of some eyes on the pair of them. "I'm still glad though. More than anything."

There's a bump at the back of his knees, and Sam looks down to see the direwolves - Summer and Shaggydog, Nymeria and Lady, Grey Wind and Ghost - all nudging and jostling for affection. He scratches them all over their ears affectionately.

"They used to sleep on your feet at night," Jon says, smiling. "We used to keep each other company waiting for you." His hand ducks underneath the hem of Sam's tee shirt to place warm fingers against Sam's skin.

Sam beams, leans forward and kisses Jon, once, sweetly and chastely. and squeezes the back of his neck. Behind them, he can hear Arya cry out, laughing, "Bloody hell, get a room!"

From the kitchen, Sam can hear Sansa and Margaery and Hot Pie getting dinner ready, and can hear the news reports bubbling from the radio. The world is recovering, however slowly. He has a lot of questions, about what happened, who survived, what happens next. Those can wait for now. He has warmth and food and his boyfriend in his arms. Sam has everything he needs right now.

"Did I miss Christmas?" Sam asks, as Sansa declares dinner, pointing to the tree. Everyone heads for the table, the direwolves circling for scraps.

"No," Jon grins, kissing Sam again as he leads him towards the dining table. Sam can see good food and people he loves and the bright white of the snow outside. His heart swells. "No, you're just in time."


End file.
